d Yang Hu, "the fitness and occasion for such speeches
as the one to which you have just given utterance lie as far behind you
as the smoke of yesterday's sacrifice. With what manner of eyes have you
frequently journeyed through Ching-fow of late, if the signs and
omens there have not already warned you to prepare a coffin adequately
designed to receive your well-proportioned body? Has not the pungent
vapour of burning houses assailed your senses at every turn, or the salt
tears from the eyes of forlorn ones dashed your peach-tea and spiced
foods with bitterness?"

"Alas!" exclaimed Ping Siang, "this person now certainly begins to
perceive that many things which he has unthinkingly allowed would
present a very unendurable face to others."

"In such a manner has it appeared to all Ching-fow," said Yang Hu; "and
the justice of your death has been universally admitted. Even should
this one fail there would be an innumerable company eager to take his
place. Therefore, O Ping Siang, as the only favour which it is within
this person's power to accord, select that which in your opinion is the
most agreeable manner and weapon for your end."

"It is truly said that at the Final Gate of the Two Ways the necessity
for elegant and well-chosen sentences ends," remarked Ping Siang with a
sigh, "otherwise the manner of your address would be open to reproach.
By your side this person perceives a long and apparently highly-tempered
sword, which, in his opinion, will serve the purpose efficiently. Having
no remarks of an improving but nevertheless exceedingly tedious nature
with which to imprint the occasion for the benefit of those who come
after, his only request is that the blow shall be an unhesitating and
sufficiently well-directed one."

At these words Yang Hu threw back his cloak to grasp the sword-handle,
when the Mandarin, with his eyes fixed on the naked arm, and evidently
inspired by every manner of conflicting emotions, uttered a cry of
unspeakable wonder and incomparable surprise.

"The Serpent!" he cried, in a voice from which all evenness and control
were absent. "The Sacred Serpent of our Race! O mysterious one, who and
whence are you?"

Engulfed in an all-absorbing doubt at the nature of events, Yang could
only gaze at the form of the serpent which had been clearly impressed
upon his arm from the earliest time of his remembrance, while Ping
Siang, tearing the silk garment from his own arm and displaying thereon
a